


angel tangled in the powerlines

by ZOMBIEDOG



Series: SELF-INDULGENT [17]
Category: One Piece
Genre: Other, also i WILL shove my hcs abt law into this fic and not even god herself can stop me, do i have any idea whats going on in canon anymore? absolutely NOT, ending is kinda wack but arent they all, hello one piece fandom i am here to be a menace after my 4 year hiatus, i have very complicated feelings abt christianity and that probably shows oop, im here with werewolf fics and angel aus nobody cares about, mainly for talk of actively stitching a wound but yknow, no i will never write anything for canon, this is a tiny bit of a medical fic so tw for that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:53:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23451253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZOMBIEDOG/pseuds/ZOMBIEDOG
Summary: and not a single soul to cut him down
Relationships: Trafalgar D. Water Law/Reader, Trafalgar D. Water Law/You
Series: SELF-INDULGENT [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1326377
Comments: 1
Kudos: 33





	angel tangled in the powerlines

**Author's Note:**

> i do what i want and thats my business

Ever since you were a little child, with wonder and amazement in your eyes, you'd been told stories of angels. How they were strong Warriors of God, the good that fought against evil, protectors of everything wonderful and just and soft in the world. But not a soul ever told you what to do when you were unfortunate enough to meet one. Yes, they were warriors and quite strong, but they were also vicious and forged in Steel and Slaughter, and one could assume that to fight against the legions of Hell one could never be soft. And as you stood there in the pouring rain, staring up at this bloodied and mangled creature, you could only stare as the powerlines danced against the unyielding metal of his feathers. And what surprised you most was the hatred that burned in his eyes as he glared down at you from his copper throne.

He was beautiful. Tanned skin with white patches you could mistake as vitiligo, black hair a deep navy when shined on by the lightning roaring above you, ferocious golden eyes that reminded you of a caged predator. Tattoos seemed to mark his body, swirling hearts on his chest and shoulders, symbols on his forearms and hands, and you caught a glimpse of a large one on his back as he struggled to freedom. There was nothing you could really do, not without risking potentially fatal damage, so you were helpless to watch him struggle until his wings managed to slice through the wires that trapped him. You could only rush to catch him as he fell.

As you tried to help him to his feet, you desperately tried to ignore the fact he was clothless in a storm, the perfect recipe for a cold. You could feel how he was trying to fight your touch, to lean away from it as much as possible without falling over, and you so desperately wanted to let go of him. His skin felt like it was on fire, a furnace burning in his bones that you were sure would blister your hands. But you had to bear with him, if only long enough to get him inside and out of the storm, to get him on your couch so you could attempt to clean up the wounds now visible to you. With such close proximity to him, the wounds were now glaringly obvious to you, the nastiest on his left arm, and with only a glance you could tell it would need to be amputated. There was no way you could save that, nor could any doctor worth his salt. You could only hope the angel would forgive you when he was more lucid.

When you finally managed to get him to the couch, you could only stare at his wings as he struggled to fold them closer to his back, the soft overhead light seeming to dance as he moved. You'd quickly turned your back to him to give him some resemblance of modesty (which you really doubt he cared about at the present moment), and you chose to ignore the cursed hisses aimed at you as you stumbled through the house collecting what medical supplies you kept on hand. To think you'd use the home-made remedies you'd learned ever since you were a tot to fix up a pissy angel. You knew it was going to be an uncomfortable phone call.

You were indeed correct in thinking that as you straddled his back, ignoring the hissed (probably curses) words aimed at you as you began to stitch the skin that attached his wings to his back. You tried to ignore how tense his posture was but it was a bit difficult to do so when he'd flinch away at the stray brush of your hand while you'd try to adjust your hold on the needle or when you'd accidentally bump him while trying to rethread. To name the one you called a 'friend' was generous at best, 'underground medic' at worst. But you wouldn't complain as they had worked without question, only sneaking you confused glances as they set to work saving what they could from the unholy mess that was his arm. Guilt grasped your heart and squeezed when the angel had latched onto your hand in a blind panic, but you knew leaving the wound untreated was completely out of the question. You weren't sure if angels could die from blood loss or infections like a human, but you weren't going to risk it.

As you cleaned the irritated skin around the new stitches, you whispered incomprehensible words of comfort as you concentrated on easing his discomfort as much as possible. You kneeled by his head that lay on the armrest of the couch, you could only stare in amazement as those predatory eyes burned into your own, the molten gold now blurring into a striking silver. The closest thing you could classify it was a type of heterochromia that was triggered by UV-rays. He just couldn't stop being more interesting if he tried. But that was a mystery for later, the man just went through absolute hell, and even though you didn't know a bit of his story, you could see just from the bags under his eyes that he needed sleep (desperately at that). So you only left his side long enough to fetch a blanket, spreading it out to cover his (still nude) frame before returning to your previous spot. And as you looked into his eyes, you could see the exact moment he no longer deemed you a threat, his breath falling even as he gave in to the call of sleep.

Tonight was going to have interesting dreams in-store, most definitely.

The two of you quickly fell into a routine of sorts, you waking up at the first hints of the sun, checking how his wounds were healing before leaving him be to sleep, him ignoring your very existence unless you were bringing him whatever concoction you'd made for breakfast, the two of you sitting in silence. Every three days, you'd contact the doctor who helped you before, and it seemed that with every visit, your angel was healing faster and faster. It seemed the bastard was also picking up your language quite quickly as well. You'd heard him more than once testing out some random word as if getting used to the weight of it on his tongue before he'd catch sight of you and follow you with his gaze until you either settled or left the room. He honestly reminded you of a very shy cat, though that was a thought you kept very close to your chest.

And the first time he properly spoke to you was absolutely, unquestioningly terrifying.

He'd slowly worked his way up to standing on his own again, his balance still left a bit to be desired but he was able to get place-to-place with minimal help, which was definitely an improvement of when you first brought him into your home. And it was as if he wanted to continue to reinforce the cat analogy in your mind, silently following you from room to room, though it was much less endearing and more like a predator keeping track of potential prey. And when you'd risk a look into those striking eyes, you could never quite shake the fear that crawled up your spine and tried to choke the air from your throat. No matter how you first found him, this man was dangerous and he knew it. He very much reminded you of a jaguar stalking through the underbrush and that's quickly what he became in your mind. Unquestionably, he was very, very dangerous.

He'd silently followed you to the kitchen, waiting until your back was completely turned to him before rushing forward and pinning you against the counter. Resting his head on your shoulder, you could feel his gaze locked onto your hands as they gripped the knife they'd previously been holding but this time there was a stiffness to the movement, a silent fear. Something that made him grin maliciously.

"You saved me," he'd hissed into your ear, the warmth of his body almost searingly warm, "but don't be foolish enough to think you've escaped your inevitable slaughter."

And just like that, you were reminded for the first time in years that they were called Warriors of God for a reason. They were vicious, monsters in their own right, and you had one dwelling under your roof. In saving him, you'd more than gambled your chances of a merciful death. In that one moment of kindness, you'd been a complete and utter fool. A voice in the back of your mind whispered it was only a matter of time until he got bored and decided he was done tolerating you, a small speck of dust waiting to be swept away from the universe. It was only a matter of time before the sun would set but it wouldn't rise for you. And the thought was terrifying.

Just like that, he had struck more than the fear of God into you, the jaguar had struck terror into its prey and now it would wait in the underbrush and wait for the perfect moment to strike.

But the days passed in a blur, turning into weeks and months, and finally, it was a year the angel had been living with you. The fear had faded, if only slightly, and now you no longer felt on edge when he slipped into the same room as you, though you did tend to keep him in the corner of your eye. The more time you spent with him, the more he seemed to warm up to you, if only slightly. His gaze no longer felt like a burning glare, more like a bored curiosity, and he tolerated touch a lot more, even if he didn't actively seek it out. The biggest sign you'd noticed, however, was the way he now kept his back to you longer than before when you'd enter a room, he'd even flare his wings out in a stretching motion and would sometimes sun them in your presence, something you didn't even know he did before.

He still hadn't told you his name, and at this point, you doubted he ever would, but you'd taken to calling him Jaguar in the privacy of your mind. It was almost funny how fitting the nickname was, but you'd never say that out loud, lest you have a repeat of the kitchen scene. That was actually the only time he'd spoken to you in a language you could understand, and though he still continued to speak to you, it all went completely over your head. The only hope you could hold onto was that his tone was never malicious like it had been, and his words had a softness to them. It was a silent gentleness you appreciated more than you'd ever say.

But it seems that things were bound to change yet again, as he'd slowly drawn closer to you by the day until he finally plopped down onto the couch and nestled his head into your lap. The only word spoken was "pet" and even then, that felt more like a command than anything, and those silver eyes only closed when you carefully carded your hands through his hair. You'd nearly jumped out of your skin when something a-kin to a purr rumbled from his chest, him tilting his head this way and that to chase after your hand. It took everything within you to convince yourself this wasn't some sort of dream, that the angel had actually placed his head in your lap and demanded pets. Who knew he was such a demanding bastard.

You continued to card your fingers through his hair until your hand started to cramp, and even then, you switched hands to scratch at the small soul-patch on his chin, laughing softly to yourself when he gave a throaty hum. The similarities between him and an actual cat were getting to be ridiculous at this point, but you loved it. And with that, it was as if you'd finally earned his unspoken trust in that one moment. Whenever you sat down, he'd make his way into the room (and inevitably, your lap) before demanding some sort of physical attention, though it was mostly chin-scratches or you playing with his hair. It was through one of these soft moments you finally learned more about your housemate.

His name was Trafalgar D. Water Law. He was one of eleven angels known as the Worst Generation, rebellious Warriors and even gifted the name 'The Fallen' amongst their own due to the number of risks they would take and Her inevitable wrath. And when you asked why he'd fallen, he didn't even bother to open his eyes when he gave a heartless chuckle and whispered, "She can judge me all She wants, but Her sins will never outweigh my own, I'm not the one who created Lucifer," and left it at that. You were well wise enough to leave it at that. You'd also learned he hated physical touch unless he initiated it and was not above snapping and biting anyone that tried to go against his wishes. Of course, you'd already learned that and your poor hand had more than a few bite-marks to testify. But as you began to know him, you couldn't help but feel this man was a far cry from the predator you found in the power-lines.

Of course, your mama taught you better than to look into the eyes of a predator, but you knew this one, and maybe one day you could even say you loved him. But for now, you'd look as long as he'd let you, with God being a world away in Her own heaven.


End file.
